Standing is a strong word.
Remaining upright through sheer willpower and mild existential denial is more accurate.
I take a careful step forward.
My foot presses into the soil.
It holds.
Progress.
The forest stretches in every direction — tall trees with thick trunks, moss creeping along bark, shafts of sunlight piercing through leaves in scattered beams. Dust motes float lazily in the air.
It would be peaceful.
If I wasn't a haunted mannequin learning how to exist.
I move again.
Each step is deliberate. My limbs still move too smoothly, bending in ways that feel less like muscle and more like intention. If I think about moving forward, my body glides a fraction too far. If I hesitate, I almost sink.
I pass between two trees.
A pair of Wurmple on a branch freeze mid-chew.
They stare at me.
I stare back.
One slowly retracts toward the leaf it's eating.
The other simply… stops moving.
Not attacking.
Not fleeing.
Just confused.
"…That makes two of us," I mutter internally.
I continue forward.
A rustle to my left.
A Poochyena steps out from behind a bush.
Dark fur. Sharp eyes. Territorial stance.
It locks onto me instantly.
Its lips curl back.
It growls.
Low.
Threatening.
I freeze.
We assess each other.
The Poochyena takes one cautious step closer—
Then pauses.
Its ears flatten slightly.
Its head tilts.
The growl weakens.
It sniffs the air.
Another step.
Then it stiffens.
Not aggressive stiff.
Uneasy stiff.
The Poochyena circles slowly, paws silent against the forest floor.
Its red eyes never leave me.
One step to my left.
I try to keep it in view.
Which is apparently a mistake.
Instead of just turning my head like a normal, functioning organism, my entire upper body rotates.
Then my hips follow.
Then my legs.
Then—oh no—
My entire body turns as one smooth, unnatural unit.
No shifting weight.
No footsteps.
No sound.
Just a full, silent 180-degree rotation like I'm mounted on an invisible swivel.
The Poochyena freezes mid-step.
We stare at each other.
I blink.
(It doesn't show, but I blink internally.)
It takes another cautious step.
I rotate again.
Perfectly smooth.
Perfectly silent.
Like a haunted security camera.
The Poochyena's ears flatten.
It growls—low, uncertain.
I panic.
And somehow rotate faster.
Not walking.
Not pivoting.
Just spinning in place to keep it in front of me.
My feet barely move. They sort of… slide. My body doesn't bob or sway like something with bones should.
I'm not tracking it.
I'm locking onto it.
The Poochyena stiffens.
Its fur stands on end.
It bares its teeth—
But the growl dies halfway out of its throat.
Because I just rotated another full circle without blinking.
I didn't even mean to.
I just wanted to keep it in sight.
Instead, I've turned into a demonic rotating mannequin.
The Poochyena takes one step back.
I tilt my head.
My whole torso tilts with it.
Unnaturally.
Too far.
The fabric-like surface of my body ripples faintly as if it doesn't fully obey physics.
The Poochyena makes a small, high-pitched whine.
Then it slowly backs away.
I try to take a calming step forward—
But my body glides instead of stepping.
No sound.
No weight.
Just smooth, frictionless movement.
The Poochyena yelps.
Turns.
And bolts into the underbrush like it just encountered a forest cryptid.
Silence returns.
I remain there.
Still slightly rotated.
"…I did not mean to do that."
////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
I decided walking like a normal person is overrated.
If I'm going to survive, I need to lean into whatever I am.
So I stop trying to mimic human movement.
I let my arms hang loosely at my sides. I allow my steps to glide instead of stomp. My feet barely disturb the forest floor. My torso sways just slightly off rhythm with my legs, like invisible strings are guiding me.
And honestly?
It feels… better.
More natural.
Less like I'm puppeteering a malfunctioning mannequin and more like the body knows what it's doing.
I move through the forest like a proper Dusk — silent, smooth, eerie. My head tilts at odd angles as I scan the trees. My long, pale limbs bend with that soft, unnatural elasticity. When I need to turn, I pivot in one slow, fluid motion instead of stepping.
The forest reacts accordingly.
A Sentret perched on a stump freezes mid-stand, tail stiff.
A pair of Beautifly flutter upward in a panic before I even get close.
Even the wind seems to hesitate around me.
Okay.
So I'm officially "local forest cryptid."
I can live with that.
I continue forward, deeper into thicker undergrowth. The canopy above grows denser, shadows stretching longer across the ground.
That's when I hear it.
Rustling.
Fast.
Behind me.
I pause mid-glide.
Slowly, carefully, I rotate my head.
Nothing.
Then—
More rustling.
To the left.
Then the right.
Then behind me again.
Multiple directions.
My nonexistent stomach drops.
Out from between the trees steps the same Poochyena from before.
I recognize the slightly uneven tuft of fur near its ear.
It locks eyes with me.
And this time?
It doesn't look confused.
It looks vindicated.
Behind it, the bushes explode outward as several massive shapes push through.
One.
Two.
Five.
Eight.
A full pack of Mightyena step into view.
Larger. Muscular. Thick black and gray fur bristling. Red eyes gleaming with pack-focused intensity.
The Poochyena makes a sharp, barking call.
The Mightyena lower their heads.
Oh.
Oh no.
"I would like to formally apologize—"
They charge.
Full speed.
The ground shakes beneath their pounding paws. Leaves scatter. Their coordinated formation spreads slightly, cutting off escape angles with instinctive precision.
They aren't confused anymore.
They've identified me as a threat.
Or prey.
Or something that needs to not exist here.
I pivot and glide.
Then glide faster.
Then realize I don't know how to sprint.